Some words belong to each other.
Others have to be hunted, tamed
and harnessed, to make them work.
Some need a gentle push, then fired up
to ignite others,
or careful watching to hear how they sing,
to see if they’re good for a line or a piece.
In a poem, some people want something
fancy or funny,
but even more, they want things
that are hidden to be unlocked.
And the poet will try to oblige
by gazing upon the swell of images,
swirling behind the surface of things
to bring something back for a dish;
or, by tapping into the secrets
from the further reaches, and plucking them,
like hooked fish, to let them speak.
Others might look further still: by crossing
the threshold of voice and fire, into the holy
ground of silence, where gentle thought-winds
emerge and coalesce, they would whisk them
into shape and form, and land them on the page.
And some poets may just sit quietly and think,
letting the words flow through, with the ink.
Then writing becomes a joy as they let it run,
chasing lines by colour, form, and scent,
watching leaves and flowers spring up along
each branching thought,
learning to listen, as the poem begins to speak,
making sure to set it free, when all that’s done.
